Georgetown felt electric at dusk. The ocean breeze swept the heat from the streets, work days ended, and people relaxed and moved about without the pressing burden of the sun. Xana walked a little taller. It was easier for her to keep to the lengthening shadows. If people couldn’t see her coming, if they didn’t have time to gather and whisper, then they did little more than stare in surprise as she passed. As a girl, she had thought true freedom was running in the sun, but the truth was, everything was easier in the dark.
Abby was exactly where she had said, sitting at a picnic table outside Cynthia’s Doubles, a tiny restaurant just off the palm-lined central square. It filled the basement of a converted plantation-era home. A short flight of stairs connected the patio with the outdoor service window.
“I eat here because the food is good and cheap and I can get the hotel Wi-Fi.” Abby motioned to the two-story motel behind the row of palms on the corner. There was a computer bag on the table next to her. The fried bread of her doubles was yellow and covered in crisp bubbles. It was folded over a filling of curried chickpeas. She took a bite. “What do you know about him?” she asked with her mouth full.
“Boraro?” Xana shook her head and shrugged. “Just what people say.” She poked at her doubles. Abby had insisted on buying her dinner, but Xana wasn’t hungry despite not having eaten since morning. The nap had helped, but she was exhausted. Her ear hurt. She could feel the scab tighten. At least Sister Rosa had cleaned it.
Abby swallowed. “He’s got a thing for blood.”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard a story.” Abby took another bite. “When I got here. About these brothers or cousins or whatever from Venezuela. They were moving product in from Colombia.”
“Product?” Xana looked at her food. She should probably keep her strength up. She picked up the folded bread and some of the filling fell out the ends and onto the paper plate. It was spicy.
“Drugs.” Abby took a drink and stared at her companion. “You really are just a country girl, aren’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not an insult. It just means you keep things . . . simple.”
“You think I’m simple.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Xana looked at the palms blowing in the night wind. She could smell the water. It was going to rain later. “Maybe I am. But I don’t hurt people. And I don’t lie.”
“Hey. If it doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me. It’s kind of refreshing, actually.”
Xana scowled. “Why would it bother you?”
“No, that just means I don—Look, that’s not the point. The point is that these two guys were moving in on Mama, right? They figure she’s a woman so she must be a pushover or whatever. Now Mama wants to make a point, so she sends for the man with the mask.” Abby waggled her head dramatically. “Rumor is, he’s African. Mercenary. Congo, maybe. Or the Sudanese civil war. No one knows.”
“Why does he wear a mask?” Xana forced another bite.
“Have you ever worn one? Like not as a joke?”
Xana shook her head.
“Try it sometime. So he finds these guys, right? Beats the crap out of one of their dealers. I mean just wrecks the guy. With his fists. He finds out where they are and ties them each to a chair. Facing each other. Then he bleeds them each from the elbow and collects it in cups or jars or something. Meanwhile they’re gagged and watching it all happen. They had duct tape over their mouths, right? So Boraro takes a plastic funnel—you know, like to do an oil change—and he forces the tip through the duct tape and into their mouths.” Abby raised her eyebrows for emphasis and took another drink through the straw.
Xana waited. “And?”
“What do you mean ‘and’? What do you think?”
Xana shrugged and took another bite.
Abby sighed. “He made them drink each other’s blood.”
Xana spit her food and started coughing.
Abby smiled and wiped bits of food from her cheek. “I think that’s what they did too, after he let them go.”
“Sorry.” Xana coughed. Her eyes were red. “Why did he let them go?”
“Probably for the same reason he wants to meet you in the open. To make a point. So word would spread. So people would know. People like Mama thrive on fear.”
Xana cleared her throat. “But why me? I’m nobody.”
“Trust me. I wish I knew. It’s gotta be one helluva story.”
Xana thought about her predicament. “What happened to them? The cousins or whatever?”
“Don’t know. They never came back.”
“I think maybe he will kill me.”
“It’s possible.”
Xana watched Abby take another bite. There hadn’t been a hint of concern in the American’s voice.
“I’ll make you a deal.” Abby spoke in between chews. “You help me and I’ll help you.”
Xana looked skeptical. “Help you with what?”
“Well . . . we may have to break a couple rules.” Abby swallowed.
Xana shook her head. “I’m in enough trouble.”
“Suit yourself.” Abby took another bite and half-mumbled with her mouth full. “But I know a guy from back when I was covering the drug beat, same guy who told me about the Venezuelans. Real creeper, but he’s got his fingers in everything. If anyone knows what Mama’s up to, it’s Werm.”
“Where is he?”
“Uh-uh. That’s not how these things work. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”
Xana looked at her companion sideways. “Why can’t you just be helpful, like a normal person?”
Abby shrugged. “Yes or no?”
“Why can’t you do it yourself?”
“This is the kind of thing where the less you know, the better.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
Abby stopped. No one had ever challenged that statement before. “Yes, it does.”
“Why would someone ever not want to know why they were doing something, especially if it was bad?”
“So if they got caught, they wouldn’t have to lie.”
“If you aren’t willing to accept responsibility for what you do, then maybe you shouldn’t be doing it.”
“Oh, please! Everybody lies.”
“Not everybody.”
“Everybody.”
“Well, I will not lie. For you or anyone else. And I want to know what you’re doing before I agree to help.”
“What if I say no?”
Xana thought for a moment. Then she stood to leave.
“Wait! Fine. Just sit down before anyone looks over here.”
Xana looked down at the American.
“Sit. Seriously, you stand out like a sore thumb.”
“So?” Xana took her chair and pushed her plate away. “Are you hiding from someone?”
“Look up at the balcony of the Chinese restaurant down the street. In the corner, inside the triangle of security guards. You see the men?”
Xana nodded. The Chinese restaurant was a bright palace in gold plastic. It was impossible to miss. It was also the closest thing to fine dining in the city. The balcony was enclosed with a glass railing and speckled with potted plants. It was popular with the well-to-do since it was cooled by the ocean breeze and offered a view of the central square. The tables were wide and round and covered in white linen. The men were all dressed formally.
“The round-faced Chinese guy with the perpetual smile is Mr. Chang. He’s sort of like deputy consul at the embassy. The older Afro-Guyanese in the green tie is the minister of state. The two on either side of him work for the government. The white guy with the glasses is Swiss, but I don’t know who he is or why he’s here. The rest of them aren’t important.”
“How do you know he’s Swiss?”
“I overheard him talking.”
Xana figured she meant eavesdropping. “They are important men.” Xana didn’t hide her skepticism. “Powerful men.”
“They’re crooked, every single one of them.”
Xana didn’t say anything. It was a given in Guyana.
“Do you know what a reporter is?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Jeez.” Abby rolled her eyes. “Sensitive much? You didn’t let me finish. It was a rhetorical question.”
“Then why did you ask it?”
“A reporter is like a social detective. The cops investigate the little crimes, the discrete crimes. Reporters find the big, systemic ones. We’re always asking why the world is how it is. You see that truck down the street?”
Xana turned.
“The one parked on the side of the road. Says ‘Speedy Delivery’ on the sides. I kept seeing it around at odd places, always parked. Most people probably wouldn’t give it a second glance. Delivery trucks happen. No biggie, right? But it was strange that it was never moving.
“So when I was at the courthouse one day, I looked up the company. Doesn’t exist. No licenses. No tax records. Nothing. So the next time I saw it, I followed.
“You know what’s inside? A military strike force. No fucking shit. They’re in there right now. It’s a government truck that travels around whenever senior government officials go out in public, like our friend the minister back there.
“Thing is, sometimes it’s out for no apparent reason. I’ve seen it parked by schools and shops and farms. Kids and families walking around and playing next to a truck full of soldiers with bazookas and shit. And when I wrote a story, they blocked it. Court order. National security. Meanwhile, you’re just not allowed to know when—or why—a military force is riding around your neighborhood, ready to pounce out and blow people up. Or make them disappear. How fucked up is that?”
“Are you trying to inspire me to commit a crime? If so, you can save your breath. I told you. I am in enough trouble already.”
“I’m asking you to think about your country. Besides, where would Woodward and Bernstein have gotten without Deep Throat, huh? How would anyone have known about PRISM if Snowden hadn’t leaked the files?”
“I don’t know who those people are.”
“Ugh!” Abby clenched her fists. “It doesn’t matter! You’re not listening. The point is that the world is the same wherever you go. The bad guys are in charge and so they make the rules. If you play by those rules, you’ve already lost. Real reporters go out and get the story however they can, then they get the proof. Once they know where to look. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.
“I can’t find anything on this Swiss guy. He’s a frickin’ ghost. Do you know how weird that is? No email addresses or public records or social media profiles. But he’s running all over the country with that truck in tow. Now he’s having dinner with the minister of state and the Chinese ambassador and God knows who else. All I need is ten minutes inside.”
“Inside where?”
“You work at the sugar plant, right?”
Xana’s eyes widened. She shook her head. “Oh, no. No no no. I need that job.” She doubted she could get another, not before she starved anyway.
Abby raised a hand. “Just listen for a sec.” She pulled a thin computer from her bag and opened it. “You ever get out into the cane fields?”
“Not if I can help it.” Xana worked with a skeleton crew cleaning the machinery at night. The men tolerated her because she worked hard, took orders, and did all the heavy lifting. Most of the old plantation land had been swallowed by the city and the largest cane fields had been moved an hour’s drive away, but the company kept a few hectares planted as a barrier around the processing facility. There was no reason to go out into the cane fields, especially alone. Especially at night. They were fenced, but then Xana was more worried about her coworkers.
The reporter showed her companion the computer screen.
Xana squinted. “What is that?” It looked like several pictures of the city, taken from the air, had been stitched together at odd angles.
“Thank God no one here has heard of drones. They never look up.”
“Drones?”
“I ordered one online, put a camera on it. Makes following people really easy. How do you think I found out what was in the truck?” She pointed to the screen. “That’s the factory where you work. These are the fields all around. You see that?” She pointed near the top of the display.
There was a structure in a clearing directly adjacent to the neat rows of sugar cane.
“Looks like a warehouse.”
“I drove by. They have a single guard that sleeps up front by the dirt road there, but that’s a good three hundred yards from the back of the building.”
“So?”
“So that’s where the Swiss guy goes every day. If you sneak me into the cane field, we can hop the fence. It’s only twenty feet or so to the back door.”
Xana clenched her teeth.
“Come on,” Abby urged. “Ten minutes. That’s it. I’m not going to sit there and read anything. I’ll just take pictures.”
Xana looked up at the important men. They had glasses raised in a toast.
“Don’t worry. This is Guyana. It’s not like they’re going to have security cameras or motion detectors or any of that shit. It’s just a crappy old building. No one will know we were there.”
Xana kept her eyes on the men and wondered if Abby ever stopped talking.
The reporter tossed her plate into a nearby trashcan. “How much do you owe?”
“What?” Xana looked back.
“You went to see your lawyer this morning. Sharks like Renkist aren’t cheap. How much?”
Xana realized she had no idea. She hadn’t thought about her debt and hadn’t bothered to look at the bill she swiped from Renkist’s desk. The envelope was still stuffed in her pocket. She pulled it out.
Abby snatched it from her hand.
“Hey!” Xana reached but Abby turned.
“Four hundred and seventeen Guyanese dollars. Plus well over a thousand overdue.”
Xana was embarrassed. And angry. Abby treated her like a child, or a little sister. Xana was neither. She wanted to punch the skinny American right in her big teeth. She took a deep breath.
“What’s this?” There was a second paper behind the invoice, a print-out.
Abby read. “Dear Ms. Jace—”
Xana grabbed the paper and turned to the side.
Dear Ms. Jace,
I have received no response to my last two messages. This will be the last communication you receive from me. I am sending my associate to Guyana to speak with you directly.
His appearance is nothing sinister, I assure you. If you refuse the offer, or even to speak to him, we will consider it final.
As always, thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Elias Prophet
P.S. Don’t worry about a meeting time or location. My associate will find you.
Abby smiled. “What is that?”
Xana crumpled the paper and shoved it in her pocket. “It’s nothing.”
“But what is it?”
“A man who wants me to do something. I don’t know. I don’t care. I just want to get my son back.”
“Who is it? Maybe I can check him out for you?” Abby held out her hand.
“No. Thank you.” Apparently she was going to have a visitor anyway.
“Fine. But if you change your mi—”
“I won’t.”
Abby held up Renkist’s invoice as if to show it off. Then she folded it and put it in her computer bag. “You help me tonight, and not only will I hook you up with Werm, I’ll cover your lawyer bill. Deal?”
Xana sat back and crossed her arms.
“I’m just trying to help.”
“No. If you wanted to help you would just help. You are taking advantage of my poverty.”
“Is that a yes?”
Xana nodded. “Fine. Ten minutes.”
The reporter smiled. “See? This is why you shouldn’t ask, ‘cuz if you hadn’t made me tell you, you could have just said you didn’t know anything and you wouldn’t be in any more trouble.” She pointed to the computer screen. “We’ll go in here, near the water tower. You know the spot?”
Xana nodded and Abby closed the program.
“Trust me.” Abby raised her right hand as if swearing an oath. She smiled. “I used to do stuff like this all the time back home. It’s gonna be so easy here.”